And the World Came Crumbling Down
by BofBanoff
Summary: An angsty little piece concerning Marissa post The Dearly Beloved.


_**Disclaimer**: I do not own the O.C. I also do not own Buffy The Vampire Slayer, there's one reference in here, fairly obvious._

_Okay guys, here's my attempt at writing in the second person. I'm still continuing Letters, so don't worry. Please review!_

_(By the way, I hope the ending didn't come off too Mary Alice from Desperate Housewives.) _

You wonder how you ended up here.

You wonder if it's any better being in the loony bin then being in jail.

The silence deafens you.

It only serves to make the racket in your head louder, louder, unbearably louder.

The voices in your head take on the guise of Ryan, of your mom, of Summer, of Trey, until they blur into one unintelligible noise.

"Oh my God Coop, what did you _do_?"

"Phone an ambulance quick! Trey, bro, you awake? Trey? Trey?"

"Sorry little brother, looks like my time's up. Girl's got balls…"

"Look Officer, I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken. There's no way Mariss could kill anyone. That trash probably got offed by one of his drug dealers. Not good with the money, you know?"

The darkness of your mind is interspersed with long trails of unintelligible guilt and regret. You've never been more scared of yourself in your life.

_RyanTreyOhMyGodIKilledTreyIcan'tbelievehe'sdeadandIkilledhim…_

A shot rings through your head, as clear as the sound the bullet which you propelled into Trey made. You start suddenly, leap up. You swing your body wildly round, panting; searching for the gun, but it's just your mind playing tricks on you. Your heart beats a mile a minute. The doctor warned you this would happen. "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder" he called it. The aftermath rings in your head, lingers like the fingerprints on his gun. The heavy thuds of adrenaline engulf you.

_Trey'sdeadbecauseofmeI'mamurdererohGodit'sallmyfault…_

You try and ignore your thoughts, force them out, but the silence, the buzzing that's left makes you want to slit your wrists, pull out your hair, scream out in agony. You slump in a corner, your arms trailing the walls as you slide down, down, until all that's left is a lanky figure hunched up, pressing against the wall. The walls of your mind close in on you, the room gets smaller. Your breathing quickens, the memory of that night overwhelms you, yet the tears won't come. They're there, below the surface, but you won't let them out. You don't deserve it; don't deserve a release from your pain. It's your fault. You lean your head against the wall, harsh, ragged gasps escaping from your mouth.

_Ryan…_

You call for him out loud, you don't realise until you hear the ghostly echoes of your voice piercing the absolute silence of the room you are in. Your cell. Your mom called it a nice spacious room, with a lovely view and papered walls. You look around at the cramped utilitarian room with a boxy window looking out over dusty landscape and you think _you're_ right. Your cell. The beige painted walls, the off-white sparse furnishings and the ivory carpet makes you wish for the traditional dank dungeon. At least that reflects your mood, unlike this room, which gives the impression it's afraid to feel anything. Although on second thoughts, maybe this room does have more in common with you. You don't want to think, to feel, at all, but the thoughts scorch across your mind. It's worse when you close your eyes, the searing words singe an imprint on the back of your eyelids, as if to taunt you. The tighter you squeeze your eyes shut, the more the words illuminate themselves.

_Murderer…_

_Killer…_

You look at your hands, face them palm up. The hands of a murderer. In the right light, it looks like there's a stain that won't come off, no matter how hard you scrub. There's blood on your hands, weeping from little half-moon cuts your nails have made from clenching. You watch, mesmerised, how the tiny droplets conform to the contours of your palm, how they turn into a miniscule river. You clench your fist again and watch the red river drop, drop, down, down, marring the carpet, spreading out, invading the soft fibres. The image of Trey, staring for a split second in amazement, looking at you in wonder, springs unbidden into your head. You squeeze your eyes and your hand, harder, harder, but nothing you do can wipe this stain off your mind.

_Blood on your hands, Coop. Hands of a killer…_

Great. Now you're thinking to yourself in the third person. Maybe you _are_ crazy. You don't know what's worse, being left alone, with nothing but your thoughts, in the loony bin, or surrounded, in a women's jail, by murderesses and criminals, ready to rob you of any shred of innocence you may still possess. Where would you be safer? You honestly don't know.

_OhmyGodI'mamurdererI'mgonnadieinhereohGodwhathaveI_done...

Sometimes you used to wonder what you would be when you grew up. Fashion designer. Catwalk model. You never imagined you'd be a murderer, left to rot in the dank recesses of your mind. You never imagined you'd kill your boyfriend's brother, abandoned because of one action. You think that if ever there was a good time to sneak a bottle of vodka into your clutch purse, the time would have been now. _If_ they had let you take a bag. _If_ they trusted you. God, you think alcohol has never been so appealing. That itch, it's always been there, this year, you've been able to scratch it more often than not, but now, the itch is almost intolerable. To be able to numb the pain, to forget, just for a moment…You would sacrifice the world and their wife for just a drop. But you don't deserve it. You killed a human being. You're scum.

_Ican'tdothisDaddypleasehelpmeMommydon'tletCaitlynforgetme…_

How ironic. The minute your parents decide to get back together and reform your family, you drive a wedge in it that nothing can close. You single-handedly destroyed any chance the Cooper's had of becoming a proper family. You stare at the wall, not seeing anything. Your fervent wish for your parent's reconciliation has been granted, but you won't be there to see it. Way things are going; you won't be there to see Caitlyn grow up, to see Seth and Summer marry, to see Ryan marry…

_OhRyanpleaseforgivemeIloveyouIloveyouIdiditforyou…_

Yes, TV shows were right. Love _does_ make you do the wacky. If someone attacked Ryan again, would you still do the same thing, knowing what could happen?

In a heartbeat.

And that's what makes you, Marissa Cooper, so lethal.


End file.
